Pretty How Town
by PRAUS
Summary: A Rumplestiltskin/Mr Gold character study, starting with the enacting of the Curse and following the twenty-eight years spent in Storybrooke until Emma's arrival. A collection of one-shots, drabbles, and other ephemera.


**Any Other Name**

He's scratching – always scratching – away in the dirt. The guards have long since dismissed is as lunacy. From their angle, the swirls and whorls of dirt lines mean nothing. Only Rumplestiltskin knows what he writes.

It is a name. A simple name repeated and retraced over and over again, written in dirt because he ran out of ink long ago.

It is _her_ name and he must never forget it.

Four little letters.

Four little letters hold the key to unlock his memory once he's _there_, in this new land. Four little letters to unlock his memory in this land without magic. Four little letters to unlock his memory so he can find him. Bae. His son.

He _must_ write the name. Minute after minute. Hour after hour. Day after day. He cannot lose one second. One second is all it takes to forget, and he can't afford to forget. Not now. Not after all the work he's done to get to this land.

So he continues to scratch the name in the dirt. Minute after minute. Hour after hour. Day after day.

He could just as easily read and re-read his parchment, except Rumplestiltskin knows names have a magic all their own – one the fairy dust covering his cell cannot touch. It is one thing to _read_ a name, but to write it, to actualize it, gives it power, brings it to life. That is why with every stroke of a black-nailed finger, he imbues each letter with a memory. Over and over again. And, after three-hundred years, he has a _lot_ of memories.

* * *

Less than a week to go before the Curse is enacted. Rumplestiltskin huddles close to the bars of his cell.

The fairy dust senses something amiss, but it doesn't know what _he_ knows. All it knows is he is the only evil magical entity present. It resorts to attacking him, crushing him.

The weight of the fairy dust is that of twenty granite slabs pressing on his chest. Breathing is difficult but manageable by the bars. He is furthest away from the dust there. And he _must_ continue his work. With only three days left, he's saved the most important memories for last.

His strokes are simpler now, nothing like the flourish of letters on his parchment. He must focus all is energy into transferring the memories. Still, the fairy dust makes it _so_ hard – and if it knew what he was up to, it might kill him.

* * *

He writhes on the floor of his cell, arms and legs twisting at odd angles. The fairy dust has launched an all out attack.

It is the final day and the air is abuzz. It tastes different, _smells_ different. Even down in the dungeons, with his nose pressed to the dirt, Rumplestiltskin can smell it. The Curse is coming.

He finished writing the name, filling it with his memories, just before dawn. All his memories, save one. It is the spell to set his plans in motion in the new land. He will keep it tucked away until the last possible minute, saving his strength, letting the fairy dust twist his body.

The smell is stringer now. Rumplestiltskin lies on the floor of his cell, gulping it in with each breath. It tells him everything he needs to know.

The Curse is cresting the tress just outside the castle, the great purple cloud obscuring everything for miles on end. But it is still too early to recite the spell.

The fairy dust no longer assaults him, having been summoned away by the Blue Fairy in her efforts to help combat the encroaching purple cloud.

Rumplestiltskin laughs. A high-pitched maniacal titter. All the fairy dust in this land will not stop his curse. It is too powerful. He saw to that when he made it. They _will_ be going to the land without magic. He _will_ find his son.

* * *

The Curse breeches the castle's outer walls. In a few moments, it will ravage the courtyard. From there it will spider its way through the cracks, smash through the windows, slither down the halls until every last being inside is transported.

* * *

It spirals its way down the dungeon steps.

The roiling purple cloud tumbles through the corridor, feeling and filling the walls, the ceiling, the floor. There is one last creature here. It can sense him.

The Curse is just beyond his bars. _Now_ is the time to recite the spell. Rumplestiltskin knows. He inhales deeply.

The purple cloud finds him. Its feathery fingers reach through the bars to claim its final victim.

Rumplestiltskin exhales a final shuddering breath, and a final word, before the cloud takes him.

_Emma._

* * *

He wakes to a sharp stab of morning sunlight cutting through his heavy brocade curtains. He thought he drew them tight last night, but apparently the curtains have a mind of their own and decided at some point to part just enough to allow a dagger of sunlight through. He can see the orange light through his eyelids and feel the heat of the beam cutting across his face in the otherwise drafty Victorian's master bedroom.

Mr. Gold groans and turns over. It's not so much the light that bothers him, it's the knowledge that soon he will feel it – the cold. It always gives him trouble this time of year, especially his bad leg.

He pulls the blankets closer and prays the weatherman made a mistake, prays that there's some fluke warm front coming causing the temperature to soar to a blistering seventy-two degrees. Anything beats the upper thirties and windy….

But it's too late. The cold finds him. Its icy fingers brush against his forehead, working their way down into his marrow.

Gold shivers beneath the blankets. He's certain he turned the thermostat up last night….

He's briefly struck by how odd that thought sounds. _Then again, 'thermostat' is an odd word_, his still sleep-filled mind yawns.

Gold pulls the blankets up over his head just as his radio alarm goes off. The sudden onslaught of morning radio talk show hosts sends his arm shooting straight up then out. The blankets are flung off him, landing somewhere halfway down his torso.

He manages to pull them back up, but the cold has already gotten to them. The eight-hundred count Egyptian cotton feels more like a glacial stream than luxury bed linen.

"This is all your fault," Gold grunts at the radio.

With an irritated huff, he turns back around to shut off the morning talk show's incessant yammering and is immediately greeted by the persistent dagger of sunlight.

Cursing, Gold squeezes his eyes shut against the sharp beam whilst fumbling about for the radio's damned "off" switch.

"…_Did you hear about this one, Mike?"_

"_Oh, yeah! Front page of the paper."_

(A dull thud tells Gold he's knocked over his bedside lamp. Meanwhile, the electronic voices buzz on.)

"…_Yeah, these deadbeats apparently left her on the side of the highway."_

"_The things people do nowadays, I swear."_

"_At least they NAMED HER FIRST."_

(Ah, that would be the volume control.)

"_Yeah. Had enough courtesy to knit her a blanket with her name stitched in and then dumped her by the guard rail."_

(_Oh, this is pointless_, Gold thinks, pushing himself up into a seated position and rubbing the sleep from his tired face.)

"_Well thank God someone found her and got her to County Hospital."_

"_You said it, brother. Baby Emma, our thoughts are – "_

The rest of the broadcast becomes nothing more than background noise.

Gold's eyes fly open. The beam of sunlight has sought refuge behind a cloud. Or the curtains pulled themselves tight again. Or something. _Something_ happened. Because _something_ changed. Because _they_ said it. _They_ said the name! Those blathering idiots said _the_ name!

…_Wait, why is that important?_ Gold asks himself, still trying to rid himself of the last remnants of sleep; but before he can answer, he feels himself get knocked back with a force equal to that of being hit by a car. It presses on his chest, pushing him into the mattress. It chases away the sun, chases away the cold. He can't breathe. He can't feel. He can't move. He can't even keep his eyes open.

Images flash behind his eyelids. Thoughts follow, filling his head with each accompanying emotion, sound, impression.

They are memories. The ghost images of another life in another land preserved down to the minutest detail passing into him….

It's over as quickly as it begun.

The force against his chest dissipates. He can breathe once more – and he does, gasping in lungful after glorious lungful of this new air. He can move too, but he doesn't get up just yet. The memories are still sorting themselves between Here and There.

Eventually the sunbeam reappears. Whether because the clouds shifted or the curtains drew back, he doesn't know and doesn't really care.

Gradually the cold seeps back into the room. It finds him lying prone on the bed and sinks its fingers back into his bones. His bad leg throbs in protest, wanting him to do something about it, but all he can do is clench his jaw against the pain.

Rumplestiltskin is human again.

* * *

**_A/N_**_ So, like I said in the summary, this 'story' is more a collection of one-shots focusing on Rumplestiltskin and the twenty-eight years spent in Storybrooke up until Emma's arrival. The name 'Pretty How Town' comes from a poem by e.e. cummings, and (for me at least) is the perfect metaphor for the rather mundane life the residents of Storybrooke lead for twenty-eight years. I own neither poem, poet, or TV show. Thanks for reading!_


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